


porai

by JustOnlyGinger



Category: The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell
Genre: Healing Sex, M/M, Mystical Runa Wisdom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustOnlyGinger/pseuds/JustOnlyGinger
Summary: Emilio finds out what D.W. wants, and gives it to him.





	

“I'm afraid there ain't much of an ass left on me. I mean, not that there was much of one to begin with or anything--”

“Shh.” Emilio hushes him, gently, beginning to pull down the loose drawstring trousers D.W.'s taken to wearing during his seemingly endless period of convalescence. “You're as God made you, Padre. Scrawny ass, strabismus and all.”

“Sure is kind of you to say so, but it's always seemed to me that God don't pay much attention to how some of us get made. Sometimes He just has other things on His mind.” Emilio, of course, isn't like him. Emilio was shaped kindly and carefully by the hands of a divine sculptor, made not in His image but in the image of what would most please His eye. A Galatea, like in the Greek myth. God made Emilio for pleasure, for looking and admiring, for love. At least, as long as he tells himself that, D.W. doesn't feel so bad about wanting Emilio's cock in his ass. His legs wrapped around those slim hips, those strong brown shoulders flexing above him, shining with sweat...

“It seems to me that God made you just so for a certain reason. To appeal to a particular pair of eyes.” Emilio smiles again and lowers his head and D.W. feels the light and sacred brush of those lips against his inner thigh. “Surely then he took more care with you than with any number of world-renowned beauties.”

“You know that kind of sweet talk don't cut any ice with me, boy.” Emilio laughs, breathy and muffled under the covers, and in spite of the afternoon heat D.W.'s glad for that bit of modesty; suspects that Emilio, all his glib reassurances notwithstanding, doesn't really want to see what's become of his body. The emaciation, the wasting away, skin and muscle shrinking, bones thrusting themselves to the surface. That his frailty could be the result of this decades-old longing seems unthinkable, but Emilio, selfless as he is, will do anything to save D.W.'s life. Find out what he wants and give it to him, Manuzhai had said; never in his most desperate and self-deluding dreams had D.W. thought it could be so simple.

“Forgive me,” Emilio mutters, again lowering his head between D.W.'s skeletonized legs. There's his mouth, warm and welcoming, and D.W.'s body remembers and his hips begin to thrust, and he groans aloud with the effort and the bliss of it.

“Good,” he gasps out, feeling the warmth of excited molecules in the surface of his skin, all the blood rushing down the familiar pathways of his body, pooling in his belly and rising hot in his cheeks and ears, practically searing the back of his neck. “God, that's good. Oh, Milio... honey, that's good.” He both hears and feels Emilio laugh with his mouth full, and that's just about enough to send him stampeding over the edge right there, but his heart isn't strong enough; strained as it is with _porai_ , with uncounted years of loneliness, with ages of blasphemous desire.

“Are you comfortable?” Emilio's sitting up, moving cushions around, sliding one under D.W.'s rickety old back and now the blanket's on the floor and they can both see everything, the destroyed topography of D.W.'s formerly very adequate body; indecent as a clear-cut forest, pelvic crests and ribs and sternum, clavicle dry and arching, everything so unforgiving, naked of cushioning fat. He waits for Emilio to say something else, but Emilio is quiet, still smiling, seeming not even to see the devastation before him. He sees something else, something beautiful; his eyes say as much. They're warm, bright, lit from within, two dark flames of humor and compassion, and he draws D.W. toward him, both hands on the bony hips, so gentle as he presses his fingers inside and then enters, and he's small enough that it doesn't hurt and big enough that it feels... well, beyond anything that D.W. could ever imagine, beyond his wanting, beyond his prayers, beyond the light of heaven and the mercy of God just to be this close to him.

Afterwards, they lie side by side in the narrow camp bed, sweating and naked, Emilio's head on D.W.'s chest, and he aches with the satiation of his desire, feels as though an old wound has finally closed. He touches Emilio's neck, his hair, his face, draws fingertips tremblingly over his closed eyelids.

“Well, Padre.” The strange wry smile on those lips, a smile of relief, of recognition. “Have I given you what you want?” Exhausted, D.W. can only nod and shiver and breathe his great heaving breaths and Emilio covers him again with the blanket, holds a mug full of water to his lips and waits while he drinks.

“Well, son, we both sure as hell better hope there's something to this damn _porai_ thing,” he says, when he can speak again.

“Too soon to tell.” That smile again. “This is the sort of experiment that might require multiple trials.” And they both laugh, and D.W. suddenly feels strong enough to grab Emilio by the shoulders and wrestle him down for a kiss.


End file.
